A Gentleman Disaster
by The Solar Surfer
Summary: Inspector Edmund Reid finds the strange and venerable Jacob Frye in his office, who seems determined to insert himself into Reid's current investigation. To Reid, Jacob Frye seems to be nothing less than a fool looking for trouble, but he may know more than he's letting on. [Takes place 6 months after the Ripper DLC. Set during Episode 1.7: A Man of My Company]
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

* * *

 _February 1889_

Inspector Reid looked up from the report in his hands, to the man sitting across his desk. "It says here that you were caught spotted following Frank Goodnight on his way to the theatre. A few hours later, when he left by carriage, it was unexpectedly ransacked by a gang of Rooks. Now, Mr. Frye, you have suspected ties to the Rooks, you don't happen to have anything to do with this, do you?"

"Oh, absolutely." Mr. Frye grinned.

Reid paused, looked the man over again. Mr. Jacob Frye was a man about his age, although he had the temperament of one twenty years his junior. Although well-dressed in a great black overcoat and a satin top hat, he had a day's worth of beard and the foolish smile of a young man who was both fully aware of his crimes and feeling not the least bit of guilt about it. The fact that he was in handcuffs only seemed to delight Mr. Frye, as if it were a novel act.

They sat in Reid's office, early morning — Mr. Frye had stayed the night. Drake offered to take care of it, but Reid was annoyed enough to see to it personally. So now he was here, running on a piece of toast and cup of Irish coffee, and beginning to reconsider his decision on waking up today.

Doing his best to appear unruffled, Reid tapped the report papers on his desk and said, "Well, most men would try to deny it first, but I suppose I should thank you for your honesty. So you admit to being responsible for the assault on Goodnight?"

Mr. Frye gave a short nod in appreciation. Reid noted the old scars across his jaw and browline. A man with a rough past, it seemed.

There was a fresher cut over his right eye, across the lid, still pink around the edges. Faint, but any deeper and it might have blinded the man. It didn't surprise Reid that Mr. Frye might have once been a Rook. Or still was.

"I'm never one for beating around the bush, Mister…" Jacob Frye leaned forward, squinted at the plaque on the desk in front of him. "Edmund Reid. Mind if I call you Eddie?"

Reid's nostrils flared. "It's _Inspector Reid_ to you, Mr. Frye."

"Stickler for formalities, are you?" Jacob Frye cocked an eyebrow. "You and my sister would be bosom buddies. How's the search for your man, by the way?"

Reid frowned. "My man?"

"Yes, that American, he works here, doesn't he?" Jacob Frye leaned back in his chair, scrunched up his face in the mockery of deep thought. "Ooh, what was his name? James, Johnson…ah, Jackson! That's right, a Homer Jackson? Now he's in a spot of trouble, isn't he?"

"Jackson?" Reid repeated, his stomach dropping. He had taken Mr. Frye to be a fool, but now he saw the boyishness to be a mere facade for the intelligence twinkling in those hazel eyes. Realizing he had underestimated the man, Reid sat straighter, leaned forward, and demanded, "How do you know about that? What do you want with him?"

Jackson had made himself scarce as soon as Mr. Theodore P. Swift, a prosperous shipping magnate, had made an appearance a few days prior. Reid had no idea what the hell was going on, only that he had lost all contact with the only doctor who could help him solve the murder of an engineer, who only recently invented a new ship's engine.

Reid had no doubt in his mind that Swift might have something to do with the murder, but he had no idea what connection Swift would have with Jackson of all people. And he had no idea what part Mr. Goodnight might play in all of this.

Either way, it was concerning.

"I know you're looking for the murderer of Fanthorpe," Mr. Frye continued, blatantly ignoring Reid's questions. "Chief Engineer at the Argentine Marine Company. Good man, brilliant man. Found dead in the Thames, knife in the back. Rough way to go, if you ask me."

"How do you know all of this?" Reid demanded, launching from his seat and slamming his hands on his desk. "His manner of death was hidden from the public. As far as they're concerned, he's only a drowned man."

"I have my ways," Mr. Frye smirked, then held up a finger just as Reid opened his mouth to speak. "I know what you're going to say! That the only way I can know this is if I committed the act myself, yes? Well, that's where you're wrong, Inspector. I happen to know that Mr. Goodnight owns a very particular knife. A knife he's very fond of, and uses without discretion."

Reid studied Jacob Frye for a long moment, cottoning on immediately but almost too stunned to speak for a moment. "Are you saying Frank Goodnight is responsible for Fanthorpe's murder? Why? He's an American, a Pinkerton. What possible motive would he have to kill an engineer?"

"Hell if I know," Mr. Frye snorted, heaving his shoulders. "I believe that's your job to figure out."

"And what do _you_ want with Mr. Goodnight, then? What's your reasoning for attacking him?"

"Oh, I just hate the blighter, that's all," Mr. Frye chuckled. "The man's a brute, and coming from me that's saying something."

"So you admit to being a member of the Rooks?"

"I never said that."

"I know of your reputation, Mr. Frye," Reid's said stonily, sitting back down. He was not in the mood for games today. "You're a legend in every pub in Whitechapel. A champion in the boxing ring of yesteryear. You've traveled to Europe and India. You're often seen in the company of the prime minister's wife. You've attended balls in the Queen's grace. A man who pulled himself up from his bootstraps, apparently. You have no job. No noble parentage to speak of. And yet, somehow, you're a wealthy gentleman. A fascinating conundrum."

Mr. Frye just laughed off Reid's overwrought suspicion, slapping the end of the desk, jostling the lamp. "You know what, I think I like you, Eddie," He said. "That's why I'm going to help you stop this dastardly Goodnight once and for all."

Reid snorted so hard his spectacles almost slipped off his nose. It sounded like Mr. Frye was affording them a rare privilege.

Readjusting the lenses, he pinned Mr. Frye with a hard look. "I'd rather dunk my head into the Thames, thank you, Mr. Frye. I don't need any help with this, certainly not from the likes of you." Then he raised his chin and called, "Drake!"

The door opened and Sergeant Bennet Drake peered in, eyebrows perked. "Yes, sir?"

Reid gestured to Mr. Frye without looking at him, going back to studying his notes. "Please take Mr. Frye here back to holding and have him processed. I have no further use of him."

"Oh, come on now —" Mr. Frye complained, as Drake hauled him out of the chair.

"That's enough fun for you, Frye," Drake grunted, dragging the bigger man out the door.

"I can help you!" Frye called.

"Not from you, I don't think so," Reid said lightly, still not looking up.

But Frye struggled, managed to slip free of Drake's grip for a moment. His top hat was knocked to the floor. Drake was knocked back against the sergeant's desk, winded. "Oi, get back here!"

Jacob Frye charged forward, grabbed by two lesser officers; he slammed against the doorframe, stuck his head back in, panting a little. "What if I told you Mr. Goodnight was acting on orders? That Jackson knows who he is!"

Reid paused.

"Wait!"

Reid snapped his head up just as Drake caught Mr. Frye in a headlock and had yanked him from the door again. At the sound of Reid's call, everyone stopped fighting, looked to him. Reid stood, eyed Jacob from his office.

"On _whose_ orders?" Reid demanded, eyes narrowing.

Jacob, ruddy-cheeked and bright-eyed, looking up for a fight, gave his biggest grin yet. "Oh, you're gonna love this, Eddie."

* * *

 **A/N: And the start of a great friendship is born.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

" _Mister_ Frye," Edmund Reid growled for the third time. "If you don't explain to me why we're loitering around this godforsaken refuse in the next ten seconds, I am walking away."

"No, no, wait!" Jacob Frye tugged on his sleeve, his head angled away as he scanned the area. "Just wait! You'll see in a moment!"

"You said the same thing ten minutes ago," Reid scowled, glancing at Drake, who was leaning against some barrels and taking a swig from his flask. Normally Reid would disapprove, but he had a bigger annoyance to attend to. "Just out with it already!"

They had been standing on the shore of the Thames for the past two hours, and Reid was getting sick of it. This was far more afforded patience Jacob Frye ever deserved. It was bad enough Reid had to follow this fool around winding paths through Whitechapel, but now he had to suffer the indignity of crouching behind some wooden pallets in the muddy streets, like some sort of ruffian. Not only did the air stink of the nearby factories and sewage, but the river itself conjured up old memories that Reid would prefer not to relive in the presence of the most outrageous man he'd ever met.

"Ah, there he is!"

Reid perked his head up, following Mr. Frye's pointed finger, to a group of men across the way. On another dock, perhaps fifty feet down, stood none other than a certain American with an absurd ascot.

"That's Swift," Reid breathed, a thought niggling at the back of his head. He glanced at Jacob Frye, squinting a little. He had been careful not to mention certain details of the current case to the man, certainly not his own conjecture on what Swift might be up to… "How did you know I suspected him?"

"What?" Frye gave him a blank look. "You think he's in on the murder? I was just here pointing out that he's the reason your Homer Jackson is missing. Wait, why would Swift kill an engineer of his own company?"

Reid wanted to kick himself. Instead, he chose to glare at Frye. "I have no evidence to prove that he would. And that's besides the point — what does Swift have to do with Jackson?"

"Well, he's looking for his daughter."

"Who, _Jackson_?" Reid gaped, scandalized.

"No, Swift!" Mr. Frye rolled his eyes. He shook his head, replacing his top hat with a ratty green flatcap, a most disagreeable look for a man of his stature. "Look, the old man's daughter up and skedaddled from Chicago about a decade ago, right? Well, he's found her, here in London. He's come to collect her and return home."

"How do you know all this? Have you been following him?"

The grin on Jacob Frye's face said enough. "Shouldn't you be asking me who the daughter is?"

Edmund Reid prefered an answer to his first inquiry, but settled for this. Rolling his eyes, he grumbled, "Fine. Who is this _elusive_ Miss Swift? And does it mean I can get my knees out of this filth already?"

"Quite right," Mr. Frye said, although he remained crouched as Reid finally hefted himself to his feet. He kept peering over the pallets, as if afraid to be seen. Even though they were in a public area, and too far away. Edmund just stared at him, wondering what the hell this man was on about. "You see, Miss Swift, as she was formerly known, decided to elope, and changed her name to prevent this exact event from happening. She settled here, made a fine life for herself, a reputation as a shrewd and lucrative businesswoman."

Reid snorted. A businesswoman? He'd never heard of such a thing. He would've certainly been aware of one by now, if she were real.

But Frye continued. "You may know her as Long Susan."

Reid froze. Behind him, Drake choked on his whiskey.

"And if Swift were ever to find her," Frye went on, eyebrows shooting up knowingly. "He'll shoot the man who defiled his daughter and only heir to the family fortune."

That's when it all started to make sense. No wonder Jackson was hiding, the bloody coward. Or perhaps Susan convinced him to hide, for both their sakes. Jackson was as likely to challenge Swift as he was to run away, depending on his state of inebriation. It was tough to tell with the American cowboy. Clearly, he had made the wiser choice this time around.

Then Reid got angry. "And you had to drag us out all the way here just to tell us this?!"

"Pfft, _no,"_ Jacob snorted, although he didn't quite look Reid in the eye when he said it. He offered Reid a placating smile. "There's something else I thought you should see. I assumed you interviewed the friends and family of Fanthorpe, aye?"

"Aye," Reid repeated like a buffoon, before doing a double-take and reminding himself to stay focused. "I mean, _yes_ , that's correct. Why?"

"Well, then," Jacob Frye pointed down at the group again. This time, Reid noticed there was a woman, dressed in black. Her face was shrouded in a veil, her head dipped low. "That would be Fanthorpe's grieving wife, wouldn't you say so, Reid? Oddly suspicious to see her here, with Swift, if you ask me,"

Reid did not appreciate Frye's leading tone. It was almost condescending, as if Frye didn't believe Reid could make the connection unless it was handed to him on a silver platter. Reid wasn't an idiot. He knew what it meant if Fanthorpe's wife was in cahoots with Swift.

But this wasn't proof. He glared at the man, throwing up an arm and saying, "You can't possibly tell its her from this distance! I can't even see her face to make a positive identification."

"Positive identification, you say?" Jacob Frye cocked an eyebrow, then gave Reid a tiny salute over the brim of his worn flatcap. "I'll be back in a jiffy."

And with that, he slipped out from behind the cover of the pallets, dropping behind some barrels and waiting out a passing patrol of some thuggish looking men before darting forward towards the wooden pier jutting out into the river.

"Where are you going?" Reid called after him, bewildered by Frye's bizarre behavior. What could compel a man to act like that?

But Reid's curiosity gave way to irritation, because Frye either didn't appear to hear him, or was actively ignoring him, continuing on his merry way. Letting out a disgusted noise, Reid just waved a dismissive hand in the air before pivoting on his heel and heading towards the streets, jerking his head for Drake to follow.

"Uh, Reid…" Drake caught his arm before Reid could pass, pointing over his shoulder. His eyes had gone wide, and Reid turned around to see what had rendered his sergeant speechless.

"What in blazes…" Reid stood with Drake, in mutual shock, as they watched Jacob Frye jump from the quay onto a fishing boat below, upsetting its balance and startling the fisherman on board. Reid didn't see the results, but he heard a loud cry, followed by a splash.

"D-did he just knock a man into the Thames?" It took him a second to recover. Shaking his head, he charged after the man. "FRYE! GET BACK HERE!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

It was near evening when Rose answered the door to Susan's brothel.

Of course, it wasn't called that, not officially. And no man ever really knocked. Why would they, when all were welcomed (so long as they were willing to pay)? So she wasn't entirely surprised to find none other than Sergeant Drake on the stoop.

"Bennett!" Rose said, a grin blooming unbidden across her face. "What a pleasant surprise!"

"Ah, the pleasure's all mine, Miss Rose," Bennett Drake replied, pulling his hat off. A flush appeared on his cheeks as he tried not to return her smile with the same enthusiasm (a resounding failure). "Sorry to disturb you this evening. I hope everything's going well with you?"

She hid her pink cheeks behind a demure, fluttering hand. Her giggle was genuine, however. "Oh, I can't complain a visit from you, Bennett! I'm doing well, thank you. So what brings you to our doorstep?"

"Well, it's a rather long story." Drake chuckled nervously, playing with his hat and finding it difficult to hold her gaze for very long. Being in her presence, and in public, always made him a little antsy. "A rather grisly case, in fact, but I don't want to get into the details, it's not for ears as fine as yours —"

A loud cough interrupted them, and Rose glanced over Drake's shoulder to see Inspector Reid and another man standing behind him. Reid was looking particularly impatient today. He had a vice-like grip on his companion's elbow, who smelled like the Thames.

"We're here to see Long Susan," Reid said, one eye twitching. "There is an urgent matter we must discuss, forthwith."

"O-oh, of course," Rose stammered, shuffling aside to let the three men pass. "Susan is upstairs, but she's refusing any visitors —"

"I think she can make an exception," Reid cut her off, striding right for the stairs. Two lovers reclining on the steps scrambled out of his way.

The third man, following Reid and Drake, tipped his hat to Rose. His green-gold eyes glittered mischievously. "It's quite a scandal."

Rose frowned at him. Although he was a stranger, she was sure she'd seen his face somewhere before. He was handsome with dark hair, but his beard was merging on the unkempt, and he was far more scarred than Reid's usual acquaintances. Of course, that wasn't what Rose found most concerning about him.

"Oh my! What happened to you?"

"There was an incident," Reid growled, half-way up the stairs.

"But he's soaking wet!"

"If you could get me a towel," the wet man called as Reid hauled him up the steps. "I'd be much obliged!"

Bennett threw her one last apologetic smile before darting up after them, disappearing down the hall. Rose was left to gawk, utterly bewildered.

To say Long Susan was displeased by their arrival would be an understatement. Detective Reid didn't even bother to knock, just burst through the doors to her personal chambers, Jacob Frye in tow. Susan, in dark blue nightgown, let out a tiny shriek as the three men came rushing in. She launched from her seat, scrabbling for the robe cast across her bed.

"Reid!" she shouted, recognizing him instantly. She shoved on her robe with indignant grace. "What is the meaning of this! I thought I told the girls —

"No visitors, I know," Reid said, flat, finally letting go of Jacob. "I don't care. This matter is urgent, and supersedes your privacy."

"Well, I can't wait to hear what it is this time! What the hell do you want?"

"It's about Jackson," Reid replied.

Susan scoffed, rolled her eyes. "I already told you before, Inspector, I have no idea where he —

"I know you're hiding him here, Susan," Reid cut her off, no patience for this game of hers. He'd played it long enough. She blinked at him in surprise, and he continued, "From a recent arrival. Your father, if I'm not mistaken."

Long Susan opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, but nothing came out. The color drained from her face; Reid would've smiled in satisfaction if he had any sense of joy in this situation. But he was a man of business, and was rarely happy as of late.

Then she let out a cry. "JACKSON!"

What followed was a great commotion from the next room, a loud thump, groan, a clatter of metal, a stream of curses. It sounded as though someone had just been rudely woken up from their nap and had fallen out of bed. Then the doors burst open and out stumbled Homer Jackson, his dark hair all awry, beard three days unshaven, with a gun half-cocked in his hand.

Looking around blearily, he demanded in a sharp American accent, "What? Who is it? I'll shoot the damn bastard if he —" then his eyes focused, and he found the present company standing there, glaring at him. "Oh, hi, Reid."

"My father has found us," Susan said to him without waiting for Jackson to ask. He looked to be recovering from a hangover. "He knows we're in London. And _they_ know —" she jerked her chin at the intruders. "— that I'm not as English as I sound."

Jackson straightened, holstering his gun and looking around in amazement. "Well, shit."

"But they have yet to explain who the bloody hell he is." Susan added, her nose wrinkling as she looked Jacob up and down.

Jacob began to bow. "Sir Jacob Frye, at your ser —"

"An idiot," Reid said.

Susan threw him a bewildered look. "He's soaking wet!"

"I know. There was an incident."

Jacob was starting to look glum. "I'm still waiting on that towel."

"Jacob Frye here was crucial in showing us the location and identity of a Mr. Theodore P. Swift from Chicago." Reid explained in that same even, growling tone. Today had been a long day. A _very long day_. Just thinking about it was giving him a headache. "Aside from his search for a certain estranged family member, I believe he may be tied to our current murder investigation. You must have heard of the death of the engineer by now."

"Frye, huh?" Jackson squinted at Jacob, completely missing the point. "I think I've seen you before, from somewhere. You from Whitechapel?"

"Crawley, actually," Jacob cast him a charmed smile. "But I doubt it. I just have one of those faces, you know?"

 _Crawley_? Reid cast the man a strange look. Not that it was pertinent to the case at hand, but he found this odd. Jacob Frye wasn't even from London. Even stranger, the town sounded familiar to Reid, but he couldn't recall why. He stored this information for later.

" _Anyways_ ," Reid said through gritted teeth, unable to hide his growing annoyance with the group. Jackson had always tested his patience, and Frye was hardly his favorite person in the world. The two of them together in one room was a recipe for disaster. "I arrived here to see what you two know of Mr. Swift's involvement

"I'm not hiding from Swift! Please." Jackson snorted.

"I know. It's Frank Goodnight you're afraid of."

Jackson did a double-take, spluttering in outrage, but before he could make up a valid excuse, Reid said, "I know he's one of the Pinkertons, your former employers. I can only take a guess as to why he's here, and why he's _also_ implicated in the murder of our dead engineer, and why he _also_ has ties to Mr. Swift. I think you can understand my suspicion, and why I came to you."

"Hey, don't look at me, I've got no damn clue," Jackson snapped, throwing up his hands. He was still upset over the insult to his honor. "Goodnight ain't here because of me."

"How can you be so sure?" Bennett demanded. "This wouldn't be the first time your past has caused us trouble."

"If he was looking for me, then he'd know where to find me!" Jackson retorted. "I don't exactly make my business private, do I? He would've shown up to the precinct if he wanted to find me. Has he?"

Reid and Drake exchanged looks. "No," they said at once.

"Exactly!"

"But would you say he's fond of a certain type of blade?" Jacob piped in, eyes sparkling. Reid elbowed him, not appreciating the interruption, but still felt aggravated when it got a useful answer.

"Actually, yeah," Jackson threw Jacob a strange look. "He's got a thing for Bowie knives. Carries at least a few on his person. Better with them than he is with a gun, at least. Definitely his weapon of choice given a certain situation."

"And would he be obliged to off a man he didn't know for a client?" Reid asked quickly, deciding to ignore his personal feelings for now. As much as he disliked Frye and Jackson, he had to admit, finally getting good information was invigorating. The headache was starting to fade.

"For nice little payday? Sure," Jackson shrugged, folding his arms. "Goodnight's not a stranger to looking the other way for a few dollars in his pocket. Can't fucking believe he ended up in cahoots with Swift though. This must be karma."

"Karma?" Reid frowned, confused.

"Buddhist concept, also found in other Eastern religions, about a bloke getting his just deserts." Frye intoned, leaning in to explain. At Reid's look, he added, "Brother-in-law. Don't ask."

"How close is my father to finding us?" Susan demanded. Up to this point she had been quiet, but had been vibrating with pent-up anxiety. She was practically shaking now, and genuinely looked afraid. "I don't give a damn about his shipping empire. It's failing anyways. I'm settled here. If he thinks he can take me back to America, he has another thing coming."

"I believe he had no clue as to your current identity," Reid replied, fixing her with a cool look. "And if he and I were to ever cross paths, I have no intention of informing him the truth. But you should be more wary of the allegations that may be placed against him, Susan. He may have blood on his hands. And that may come back to haunt you."

"I certainly hope not." she sniffed, but her arrogance was only half-hearted. Her shoulders had relaxed considerably after hearing his promise.

"I'm not getting that towel, am I?" Jacob complained.

"Jackson, you're to return to work immediately," Reid turned to the doctor, who looked more put-out than angry. "I need you to confirm cause of death for me. We have the murder weapon in evidence. You think you can confirm it belongs to Mr. Goodnight?"

"Possibly." Jackson shrugged. "Won't do you much good if he shows up in person, though. He prefers to shoot first and ask questions later, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, I understand I perfectly," Reid replied dryly. He shared a look with Bennett, added, "Trust me, if he shows his face, we'll have the matter well in hand. I say we have at least enough evidence to call him into question. We just have to find him first."

"Well, if that's all," Susan said, throwing up her arms, "I ask that you take your leave, Inspector. It appears Jackson and I have much to discuss."

"Oh, yay." Jackson muttered.

"Of course, Miss Susan," Reid said, withdrawing to the door with his party. He tipped his hat. "Or should I say, Swift?"

The last thing he saw was a furious look on Long Susan's face before shutting the door.

When they had stepped outside again, Reid let out a long breath of relief. Finally, some headway in this case. Jackson back at work. And he could finally release Jacob Frye from his unwanted aid.

"Well, I think this where we part ways, Mr. Frye," Reid said, turning to the man and trying not to sound too pleased. "You were of...reasonable help to Scotland Yard —"

"Eddie, I know where you can find Goodnight," Jacob Frye cut him off.

"W-what?"

"Meet me tomorrow at Trafalgar, when the clock strikes ten," Frye grinned, stepping away from Reid and Bennett. He fell into the shadows with disconcerting ease. "Good evening, gentlemen!"

And with that, he disappeared.

Drake took a sip of whiskey and cursed under his breath.


End file.
